


House Of Memories

by hollowbirds (torturousthings)



Series: Written About You [11]
Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Cheating, M/M, house of memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 19:27:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9199328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torturousthings/pseuds/hollowbirds
Summary: The door of the bar opens and I look up. Hold my breath as I see him again, for the first time in at least four years, and my fears come to life.





	

I fidget. My hands are shaking slightly and I shove them in my pockets, hoping they’ll stop soon. I can’t have him see that I’m nervous. Can’t have him see that he still has power over me, any kind of power. 

 

Sarah said it was a good idea for us to meet up, but I’m not so sure now. I can’t say no to her, and she knows that, insisting that it’ll help me. But she doesn’t know everything. She doesn’t know what really happened between me and him, how we built and destroyed and hated and loved. She knows we were in a relationship and that the breakup was messy and that we’ve barely seen each other since, but she doesn’t know the passion. I don’t think she ever will. I love her, but it’s different. I love her in a home way: she makes me feel safe, feel warm, feel happy. 

 

But him, oh God. 

 

He made me feel like I could take on the world. Like I didn’t have any weaknesses, like nothing could ever hurt me. My stomach knots at the thought of him, ten years later, still. He turned out to be my weakness. My Achilles heel. I was foolish enough to think I’d found love, the real kind; I guess I did, in a way. I found passion. Soul-ripping, body-consuming passion, but one firework can’t equal the heat a steady flame can bring. Sarah’s my flame. He was a spark. A spark that fucking blinded me; I was nineteen, foolish, and I thought I’d found love. 

 

The door of the bar opens and I look up. Hold my breath as I see him again, for the first time in at least four years, and my fears come to life, my hands still stubbornly in my pockets. He hasn’t changed, maybe lost a little weight, and he’s wearing an old leather jacket. His hair’s a bit longer, though, and he smiles when he spots me. A small smile, but it’s enough to show that he’s not mad anymore. Or was I the one holding a grudge? I can’t remember. 

 

“Hey,” he says, pulling the chair back and sitting down. I nod and notice he has an earring. Huh. My hands are still in my pockets. I don’t know if it’s a good idea to get them out of there, but I do anyway, reaching for my wine glass. It’s filled with water. 

 

“No beer?” 

 

“No,” I answer, and can’t help the smile on my face. He must remember this. I look in his eyes, and know he does. 

 

That night, we’d gotten ridiculously drunk off beer, giggling like the teenagers we were and running on the streets, yelling at the few cars that drove past us. He’d reached for my hand and I let him take it, the other one still holding a bottle. Hands linked, heads spinning and legs sore, we ended up in some motel. The room was dark.

 

He’d looked at me like he hadn’t before, that night, and somehow I knew how much he wanted me. It radiated off him as he walked closer, in waves of warmth that I picked up like a moth looking for light. I don’t remember whether he kissed me first, though, but I remember my hands in his hair and his breath hot against my skin. 

 

“So,” he says, interrupting my thoughts as if he didn’t want me to remember further. I wonder if he has. “What have you been up to these days?” There are rings on his hands, and I make no effort to hide mine as his eyes travel down to them. I’m married.

 

“I got married,” I say, and watch his face in search of a flicker of surprise, or hurt, or anything, really, but nothing happens. His brown eyes are steady as he looks back at my face and smiles. 

 

“Congratulations.” The smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

 

 

He orders food, and asks me if I want any; I decline. The knot in my stomach hasn’t disappeared yet, there’s no way I’d be able to eat anything. He insists, though, and I ask for fries, just to shut him up. 

 

“You’ve lost weight,” he says, though it isn’t true. I haven’t. 

 

“So have you,” I shoot back, and this time it’s not a lie. He’s gotten slightly skinnier, and I can’t believe I can tell. He shrugs and looks over his shoulder, probably trying to spot our food. 

 

It finally arrives, and we eat, talking about our daily lives and what we’ve been up to, talk about everything but Sarah. He doesn’t bring it up more, and I don’t elaborate. I know he’s written music, and feign surprise when he tells me about it. I don’t listen to it, though the songs are on my phone. It’s too bittersweet to me. 

 

“I’ll walk you back,” he says once we’re done, and I nod. I get the check, and he doesn’t try to stop me.

 

It’s been dark outside for a while now, and we walk side by side, a safe two feet between us. My house isn’t far, and we get there fast. 

 

The porch lights are off: I can barely see his eyes, and he gets closer. My hand flies to the doorknob as I become acutely aware of each movement he makes. Sarah is probably sleeping somewhere on the other side of the door, thinking I’m catching up with an old friend. I guess I am. 

I’m here, and he’s got me exactly where he wants me. He had me the second I agreed to have him walk me back. 

 

Suddenly, his lips feel familiar on mine and I don’t pull away, my back pressed up against the wall of my house and him pressed up against me. His hands are gentle at first, almost hesitant, but gain confidence when I don’t push him back. I know I shouldn’t, but memories flood my mind, drowning the guilt. He bites my lower lip just the way he used to, and my hands fly to his hair, pulling on it gently. He moans, and I feel his erection pressing against me, turning me on more than it should and my head spins as I kiss him harder. 

 

“Stop,” I pant, and push him back. “I can’t— This is wrong.” His eyes are dark and searching mine, but his lips stretch into a smile. I realise how much I’ve missed him, but I can’t do this. 

 

“Goodbye then, Brendon,” he says, stepping back and away from me, my lips still tasting of him. He vanishes before I can call back. I tilt my head back and rest it against the wall. 

 

There was a door I closed years ago, and he just ripped the lock out of it, letting himself back in.

 

I wipe my mouth and let myself in the house that now holds his mark. 


End file.
